Putting aside little dissipations of this kind, I should add that "the
late Barbassou" is really very steady-going for a man of his
temperament. He takes everything which comes in the routine of our
fashionable life so naturally, that nobody would imagine he had spent
several years at the hulks in Turkey.

My aunt Eudoxia, of whom he stands in wholesome awe, and who keeps him
in check, forces him to cultivate the vanities of this world. He escorts
her to balls and fêtes with all that ceremony with which you are
familiar; and quitting the lofty regions of his own philosophical
existence, without however permitting anything to disturb his
self-possession, he goes forth into the gay and hurried throngs of Paris
with as little concern as he would into any village street. In short, he
is in exquisite form, and--but for the legal disabilities which deprive
him of his rights of citizenship--you would find him still exactly what
he was when you knew him five years ago.

However, the other day he received a little shock in connection with a
very simple incident, which might have been perfectly anticipated.

We were in my aunt's box at the Opera. The pasha, seated by her side,
was listening to a singer who was rather more buxom than elegant; and he
appeared to be calculating what her nett weight would be, after making
deduction for her queen's crown and robes of state. After a minute or
so, he seemed to have solved this equation and lost all further interest
in the problem, for he began to examine the audience. All of a sudden he
shouted out, quite forgetting himself, in his Provençal brogue: "Té! What's that I see?"